Page 44 of Marriage of Revenge

My father's men move with practiced precision, a human wall between us and Antonio. Through the gaps between their shoulders, I see Connor following him, speaking in low, urgent tones. Whatever he's saying makes Antonio's jaw clench. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and for a moment, he looks ready to tear through everyone between us.

One wrong move, one spark of defiance, and this powder keg of a room will explode. Again.

I shift sideways just enough to meet Antonio's gaze, and for a heartbeat, I'm that girl again—the one who believed in dark princes and happily-ever-afters. The one who thought he might save me, might be different from all the other monsters wearing Armani suits and blood-money smiles. Connor's hand lands on his shoulder, restraining or steadying, I'm not sure which. But Antonio's eyes never leave mine until they stride away.

And I clench my haw. I don’t need a knight. Or a prince.

I know better now. Survival isn't about being saved—it's about saving yourself. And right now, that means saving Naomi too.

My father's chuckle cuts through the tension, the sound hollow as hospital halls at midnight. Something twists in my chest—hatred, maybe, or the final death of hope. I've spent years fighting this feeling, making excuses, telling myself he must have reasons for everything. The auction. The tournament. The way he watched me struggle through treatment without ever really seeing me.

Trying to understand. Trying to make myself believe that he was really doing this out of need of survival.

Trying to convince myself when Antonio’s mother disappeared that he did look for her. That the whispers about her death were just that. Whispers.

He promised me he wouldn’t hurt her.

Even if I know she left never to return because of me.

Around us, life goes on like this is normal. Like my best friend isn't being offered up as a consolation prize. Crystal glasses clink like wind chimes made of threats, while the rich aroma of pasta and wine wafts from the far corner where caterers scramble to transform this battlefield back into a ballroom. The shattered chandelier from last night's chaos has already been replaced, computers whisked away to make room for crisp tablecloths and crystal stemware.

The show must go on, after all.

Even if we're all just dancing on broken glass.

My father's voice booms. "We have an hour before the next event. Food is waiting for you all. Congratulations to the ones who are going to enter the next round." And he leaves us at the table with Georgio. Who’s watching us. We can’t talk. We can’t say anything with him here.

The crowd goes toward the catering, eating and laughing like none of this really affects them. The scent of expensive food mingles with cologne and gunpowder, making my stomach turn. They're celebrating like they're at a corporate merger, not bidding on human lives.

Yes, they get entertainment out of this. Some more business for some. And a wife. A wife who might cement their positions and of course, if she doesn't shut up and sit pretty, they have ways to make sure she does. Henrik's bite mark throbs on my cheek, a reminder of exactly how they handle disobedience.

Who cares, right? As long as they get what they want.

But seeing Naomi, with tears carving paths on her cheeks, used as yet another bargaining chip? It sets my blood boiling.My father gestures for his men to drag us into the room where I had the not-so-wonderful pleasure to talk with the ones who had won the auction. I guess he thinks a little bit of privacy and less tears might be better for this masquerade.

Connor's voice carries across the room - "Antonio, think this through" - but Antonio's already moving back toward us again, ignoring everyone this time around, that predator's grace making everyone else look clumsy in comparison. His eyes burn with something darker than rage, something that makes my pulse skip-flutter.

"I want to check in quickly on her cheek." His voice is arctic, but his eyes tell a different story. They flick to Naomi, then back to me, carrying messages I'm afraid to decode. "You know what they say about buying broken goods, you can't really replace them that easily. And if I'm to go on with this tournament, I want to make sure I get what I paid for."

The words are cruel, but his hand, when it reaches for my face, is gentle. For a moment, I'm back in that room, his lips on mine. But that was before Naomi became another chess piece in my father's game. Before I realized no one's coming to save us.

"You can see her from here," Georgio snarls.

I'm tempted to tell them off. I'm tempted to remind them that I'm a person, not some painting they can appraise from a distance. But my father's words echo in my head like hospital monitors beeping warnings. I can't cause a scene. I can't do that to Naomi.

So, I stand taller, channeling every ounce of steel that got me through treatments and pain.

“Let him see,” I tell Georgio, who leans back in his chair.

"Bell’scenda,” Antonio whispers like he’s trying to remind me of the past again. My cheeks warm under his gaze as the word ricochets through me like an echo of who we used to be. His mouth lifts into that infuriatingly sexy half-grin that makes myheart forget its rhythm. And as he leans closer, his elbow kicks the coffee pot still on the table, sending it clattering toward Georgio who jumps up and curses right as Antonio whispers, "Some numbers never change."

And without another word, he strides away, leaving me to decode his message while trying to ignore how his voice saying my name still affects me.

Some numbers never change.

Does he mean his number? He can't still have his American number, can he? The burner phone? Is he trying to tell me we should communicate?

Georgio's voice cuts through my spinning thoughts. "Don’t come back here.” He shouts toward Antonio. “And get the girls out of here. Back to the room.”

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